by J. G. Sandom
Mariane had been worried all day. First the shock of seeing poor Maurice, broken and scattered in that room beneath the cathedral. Then to find out someone had tried to kill both Joseph and the Englishman. And now, to make it all worse, Joseph had gone off to Chartres.
She finished unpacking a carton of Kodak film and stacked the little yellow boxes onto a tray. Then she carried them from the storeroom, down the long corridor, and through the curtain to the front of the shop. There was hardly anyone about. The weather had been bad and most of the tourists had decided to forgo this side trip in their journeys. She started to drop the boxes of film into the display behind the counter. 1000 ASA. 100. Now, if the tourists went anywhere, she thought, they would go to Chartres, to Joseph. Where she should be.
“Mariane.” It was the owner of the store, André Cartier. He was motioning to her.
“What is it?” she said.
Monsieur Cartier was a large man, like a well-filled pastry, topped with a dollop of gray hair and foamy white sideburns. He wore a long black apron to protect him from the chemicals and a pair of pointed shoes. “You see that man,” he said, and then, “Don’t turn around!”
“How can I see him if I don’t turn around?”
“Well, turn slowly then. Discreetly.”
She glanced casually about. The far wall was covered with posters of the cathedral. An old man stood just below them, peering at a row of slides in a luminous glass stand. “What about him?” she said.
“Keep an eye on his hands. He’s been here for fifteen minutes, but he doesn’t need any help, and he isn’t looking for anything.”
“Maybe he’s just cold.”
Cartier frowned. “Maybe, maybe,” he said, his head wobbling indecisively. “But keep an eye on him anyway.” Then he snorted, like the sound of a breaching whale, and darted back behind the curtain.
Mariane returned to her stacking. She dropped the boxes of film one at a time into the display case behind the counter, counting them off. He certainly didn’t look like a shoplifter, she thought, glancing around. He was just an old tourist with glasses. And his eyes were friendly and bright, twinkling, like a pair of morning stars. Then, as if he had felt her watching him, he looked up with a smile. Mariane took the last box of film from the tray and let it slide through the top of the display case, down the long glass chute. Like the eyes of Père Noël, she thought.
The tourist disappeared and suddenly there he was, right there, beside the counter. “Mariane,” he said soothingly, almost in a whisper. “Mariane Soury-Fontaine.”
“Yes,” she answered. “May I help you?”
Chapter XXII
CHARTRES
September 26th, 1991
FOR THE FIRST FEW SECONDS KOSTER WAS CONVINCED the sound was just an echo of his own imagination, another bad dream. He had not been able to sleep. The numbers had been biting at him from the darkness just beyond the bed. He had walked the labyrinth in his mind a thousand times and it always brought him back to the same spot, to this lumpy pillow, to the blankets at his ear, to sleeplessness. Then the sound had slipped him from his reverie. First a creaking of the floorboards, and then a padded step. He pulled the blankets down so he could hear more easily. There was a scratching at the door, a knock, a voice.
Koster was up and armed with a coat hanger in ten beats of his heart. He moved cautiously toward the door, holding his breath, trying to remember the position of that one squeaky floorboard which he had noticed when the light was on. Steady, he told himself. He put a hand out before him. Someone was there, on the far side of the door. He could practically feel them. He turned the knob as quietly as he could, and snatched the door wide open.
“Oh, Joseph,” Mariane said, as she slipped into his arms.
Koster brought the hanger down, trying to free himself. “Mariane, what are you doing here?”
She stepped into the room and he closed the door behind her, turning the light on at the same time. “What is it? What happened?” he said.
Mariane walked slowly across the room without speaking. The window shutters were closed but she did not seem to notice. She simply stared at the darkened glass. Koster could see her face in the reflection. It looked haggard and pale. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes were puffy and raw.
“You’ve been crying,” he said. He put his arms around her but she pulled herself away. “What is it?” he repeated.
“They tried to kidnap Guy,” she said, finally.
“Who did? When?”
“Scarcella’s men. At the cathedral, when he was finishing up his last tour. Oh, Joseph.” She turned away, bringing her hand to her mouth. “They wanted me to help them find the gospel. It was Scarcella, I’m sure of it. He came to the shop. He told me they had my brother, that I had to do exactly what he said. Then, right afterwards, I got a telephone call from Guy. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to escape. He was hiding in the rectory. He was terrified, Joseph. You know how he is. He’s like a child sometimes.”
“I’d better get Nigel,” Koster said.
“No!” Mariane’s voice was desperate. “It’s his fault we got into this.”
“He has to know, Mariane.” Koster guided her to the bed. “Go on, sit down,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Lyman’s room was just a few yards down the hall and it was only a matter of seconds before he emerged from behind his door, dressed only in a vest and pants. Koster told him briefly what had happened and the Englishman sighed. “Give me a minute,” he said.
Mariane was still sitting on the bed when they returned. Her face was hidden by her hair, but Koster could hear that she was crying and his heart went out to her.
“Now then,” Lyman began, sitting in the armchair by the window. “Tell me precisely what happened.”
“They tried to kidnap Guy.”
“You’re sure it was Scarcella.”
She described the old man in the photo shop, the way he had lingered, the way he had approached her after Cartier had left the room. Lyman nodded somberly. “All right, let’s not start worrying now,” he said. “No sense in that. At least Guy managed to escape.”
“He said something about Father Marchelidon,” Mariane continued. “He was there, at the cathedral. I think he was.” She whimpered. “I’m not sure. They wanted me to help them find the gospel. They threatened to kill Guy if I didn’t, Joseph. That’s what they said.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Koster sat down beside her on the bed. “It’s okay.”
“Where’s your brother now?”
“We have some family in Brittany. He said that he was going to go and hide there for a week or so, until everything quiets down. He wanted me to go there, too.”
“Why didn’t you?” Lyman said.
Mariane looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Because I wanted to come here. I wanted to be with Joseph.”
Koster put his arm around her shoulder. “And you said she’d be safe, Nigel. You said Scarcella had Grabowski in his pocket, that everything would be fine.”
“Something must have happened. A change of heart, perhaps.”
“You mean another mistake. Just like that old woman with the knitting needles on the train.”
“We don’t know it was her. It could have been anyone. At least I persuaded Musel.”
“What happened on the train?” asked Mariane.
“We were followed, that’s what,” Koster said. “Grabowski showed up this morning. Right out of the blue. He said the concierge at the Hôtel de la Paix had told him where I was. But I never told the concierge. No one knew, except Lyman and me. And you, of course.”
“And the labyrinth?”
Koster shrugged. “The numerical relationships are incompatible. They operate under completely different systems.”
“In other words,” Lyman explained, “he doesn’t know what it means.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, Christ!” said Lyman, standing up. “This i
s pointless. Come on, Mariane.” He offered her his hand. “Let’s see if we can find you a room.”
“No, I don’t want to be alone.” She looked over at Koster. “Let me stay with you. Please.”
Koster patted her on the back.
“As you wish,” said Lyman. “I’ll see you in the morning. Try to get some sleep.” Then, with a final wave, he left and closed the door.
As soon as he had gone, Mariane disappeared into the little bathroom near the window, and Koster sat back on the bed. He could hear the water running in the sink. He could hear the sound of the soap in her hands. He pictured her looking at herself in the mirror, poking at the bags below her eyes, blowing her nose and dropping the tissue in the toilet. Then he heard it flush and she reappeared within the doorway. She had borrowed his brush, he noticed. She had taken her sweater off. It dangled from her fingertips, dragging on the floor. She was wearing a dark blue dress, buttoned at the back, tight at the hips with a slight flare below the knees.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she said.
“No, not at all. Of course not.”
She moved toward him from across the room, her chin up, the white skin of her neck exposed. She had taken the abraxas off, he realized, and he was about to say something when she sat down beside him on the bed, resting her head against his shoulder.
“I can sleep on the floor if you like,” he said.
“No, Joseph. Not tonight.” Then she shrugged. “Whatever you want, Joseph. I must look a frightful mess.”
She turned toward him suddenly. Her eyes were moist with tears. Koster felt himself drawn down. He felt her kisses covering his face. They fell back slowly on the bed and her body pressed against him, the humid softness of her thighs, her hand between his legs.
“What’s the matter?”
Koster sat up, trying to look calm. “Nothing,” he said.
Mariane reached out for him again but he did not move. “What is it, Joseph? I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“So did I.” He looked away. The faucet was still dripping in the bathroom. A car swished closer to Rouen.
“Is it Priscilla? Is that it?”
“No, it has nothing to do with her.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t want me anymore. That’s it, isn’t it? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m crazy about you, Mariane. Maybe that’s why.”
Mariane sat up. She glanced over at Koster for a moment and then slid off the bed, crossing the room to the armchair. Her purse lay on its side beneath the window. She reached down and took out a pack of cigarettes. “What does that mean?” she said.
He watched her tear off a match. “I don’t know. It’s just that, this time, I want it to be different.”
Mariane lit a cigarette and the smoke spilled from her open mouth.
“I want to give us a chance,” he said, “a real chance. I don’t want to force myself on you in some moment of weakness.”
“I wish you would.”
“No, you don’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Mariane took another drag off her cigarette. “What happened between you and her?”
“You mean Priscilla?”
She nodded. “You told me once that there were other men. That she betrayed you?”
“No, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the drugs either. All of that came later. She just used them to forget.”
“Forget what?”
Koster shrugged. “We had a baby, you see. But he died when he was only a few weeks old.” He closed his eyes. “It’s called SID Syndrome.”
Mariane stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray by the bed. “I’m sorry, Joseph,” she said. “I had no idea.” She moved a step closer, raising a hand toward him, but he turned away. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that,” he said reproachfully. “Don’t you think I know that?” Then he added, “It’s funny but I can still remember standing over him in the middle of the night, just looking down and seeing him there, not moving, just lying there in his crib. Cold. Like a doll in a sleeping suit. No one really knows what causes it. The doctors said he just stopped breathing.”
Mariane placed a hand on his head. “These things happen, Joseph,” she said. “It just happened.”
“Yeah, to me. To Priscilla and me. Ten thousand to one. That’s what the odds were. That’s what I kept thinking as they lowered him into the ground. I worked it out. Statistically, you see. Statistically, it should never have happened.” He looked up.
“The problem was, I didn’t miss the baby, and Priscilla knew it. I could barely remember what he looked like. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. It’s as if there hadn’t been enough time for the image to develop, to come together in my head. I wanted to remember him.” He laughed flatly. “When he died I felt like the world had taken off its mask for the first time, and I could see it, right there, in front of me. Right there. Do you understand? Ten thousand to one. That was the real betrayal.” He shook his head. “Nigel was right. I’ve made a symbol of my life. That’s why Priscilla could never forgive me. I even made a symbol of my son.”
Mariane cradled his head against her breast.
“Look at me,” he said, after a moment. “I should be comforting you and here you are. I’m making a fool of myself.”
“I love this fool,” she said.
He looked up. “I love you too, Mariane.”
“Joseph.”
“Yes?”
“I have to tell you something.” She stepped back, looking down at him.
“Yes,” he said. “What is it?”
She tried to speak but the words seemed to harden in her mouth. Then she shuddered. “Just hold me, Joseph,” she said. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. Anything could. And now that Scarcella’s here, something could go wrong. Something could happen to us.”
Koster pulled her down beside him on the bed. “Nothing’s going to happen to us,” he said. “You have to believe that. I won’t let it. We’re going to be all right.”
“But what if it did?” she said. She looked down at the floor. Her mouth was trembling. “I just want you to know that whatever happens, I love you, Joseph. That’s all. Do you believe me? No matter what.”
“No matter what,” he said. He took her in his arms and they fell back against the blankets, their fingers slipping down, desperate for a handhold on the moment.
He watched her for a long time without moving, without saying a word. She sat on the arm of the armchair, wearing her panties and bra. She was smoking a cigarette. She was turned away so that he could only see one corner of her face, layered by the light and shadows from the shutters. She brought the cigarette to her mouth. She took a drag. She opened her mouth and, just as the smoke began to slip between her lips, she drew it in, deep into her lungs, and blew it out again. Wave upon iron-blue wave billowed across the room, trapped by intermittent bands of light, vanishing in the dark.
“What time is it?” he asked.
Mariane jumped, startled by the sound. Then she turned her head and said, “I don’t know. Early, I guess.”
Koster smiled. He licked the sleep from his mouth. “It’s freezing in here,” he said. “Why don’t you open the shutters?”
“No, I like it like this.”
Koster slipped out of the bed and kissed her on the back of the neck before ducking into the bathroom. “Want some breakfast?” he said, peeing. It seemed so loud—frothy and thunderous.
“No, thanks. I’ll get some coffee if you like, if you’re going to work up here.”
“Work?”
“On the labyrinth. Your calculations.”
“Oh, right.” He poked his head out the door. Mariane had lit another cigarette. “Aren’t you cold?”
“A little.”
He crossed the room and took her in his arms. “How’s that?”
She jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying
to smile. “Your hands are like ice.”
“They are?”
She turned and put her cigarette out in the ashtray. Then she looked up at him again, her hair partly covering her face, her mouth half open. “Joseph,” she said. “What do you think’s going to happen?”
“What do you mean?”
“Guy says that if the Gospel of Thomas is as old as Nigel thinks it is, it could change the Church forever.”
“I guess so,” he answered vaguely.
“Don’t you care?”
“Sure I care. It’s just that I’ve been so busy with the labyrinth.” He shrugged. “Besides, I don’t go to Mass much anymore. You know that.”
“Why don’t you go, Joseph?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because religion’s based on faith, and faith always seemed like the opposite of proof to me, of truth even.”
“I’ve always believed,” said Mariane. “That’s the problem. I mean, what if Nigel is right? What if I’ve spent my whole life believing a lie? All of those prayers, Joseph. Where did they go?”
“I’m sure they weren’t wasted, Mariane.”
“But how do I know that? And what about all those nuns and priests in the world. All those missionaries. What are they really preaching? Whose words? I don’t know what’s right anymore.”
“Listen, Mariane. If the gospel is genuine, if it really contains the words of Christ, then it deserves to come out. And if it’s a fake, it will probably be forgotten. Besides, we have to solve the labyrinth first. Then we can worry about the gospel, okay?”
Mariane nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” She reached down and picked her dress up off the floor. “Joseph,” she said, “what do you think about when you’re working?”
“What do you mean?”
She slid one foot and then the other into the dress and pulled it up, swiveling the fabric over her hips. “I mean, you have all these numbers before you and they all have to make sense. They all have to mean something.”